Like Mother, Like Daughter

Some things tend to find me at the right time. I was flipping from channel to channel, looking for something to watch, when I stumbled upon the movie The Joy Luck Club. It was about Chinese immigrant women and their Chinese American daughters, highlighting moments in their lives to show the differences in upbringing and mentality. I identified with it and liked it so much that I bought the book the movie was based on, read it, and took it with me when I moved to the UK. It made me look at the relationships between the women in my family, and I found them complicated and full of tension.

I was told that before I was born, my gran Elena told my mom that she had helped raise my sister and that now, since they were having a second child, it was my dad’s parents’ turn to help. My gran was always portrayed by my mom as a cold woman who always pushed to get her way, tried to control everything my mom did, and punished her when she disobeyed. She believed that children should only be kissed in their sleep for fear of spoiling them.

My gran had come from a big family, and she had to help raise her siblings. They were not a rich family, so she had grown up used to scarcity. I have seen pictures of her and her sisters, and they were all very well put together. She always said that no matter how cheap clothes are, one should always be clean and dressed with care, putting their best foot forward.

She seemed impenetrable to me, and she had strong opinions. I would see her talking away and telling my grandfather what to do and how to do it, and my grandad would just look out the window and say, “Yes, dear!” or “You’re right, dear!” while she kept going and going. My dad used to say she could anger even an angel, and the way my grandad would put up with her was a credit to his personality. I always thought she was all talk, but deep down, I never saw her as a mean woman. She would talk, give advice, and try to control everything, but she never really bothered me. My sister went beyond that and completely ignored my gran’s attempts to be stern and demanding. She insisted on spending time with my gran, and they always got on like a house on fire.

I remember her picking me up from school and taking me to their house. I loved her dumpling soup and her courgette doughnuts. She made them often because she knew I liked them. She would put croutons in her tea, let them soak, then add a bit of butter and feed them to me. I enjoyed that because it felt like a special thing between Grandma and me. I also enjoyed watching her cook. She wouldn’t let anybody help, but this was her way of allowing me into her little rituals so I could observe her in peace. I could see the care she put into her cooking. Food had to look, taste, and smell good. Food was her love language.

She used to take me with her when she visited her friend. We would take a bus and then walk by a park that had magnolia trees in bloom. To this day, when I see magnolia trees, I smile and think of my gran. There were mixed feelings about these visits, though. I loved my gran’s friend. She was my grandad’s niece but my grandma’s age. They used to catch up on everything happening in the family. My aunt Jenica was the only one who would make remarks that shut my gran up instantly. As a child, I found that amazing because everybody else simply obeyed my gran. The downside of these visits was that they lasted for hours, and I would get incredibly bored and restless. That did not sit well with a generation that believed children should be seen and not heard.

I enjoyed visiting my gran Elena and grandad Nicu because I could go out and play with the children in front of the building. I would get treats from the other grandmothers because they knew we would all be there. I would enjoy my gran’s cooking and my grandad’s stories. I loved being at my grandparents’ house, but I didn’t quite enjoy being there with my mom and dad. My mom would be tense and closed off. She would spend most of the time looking down and just listening to her mom. They would all go to the kitchen to smoke, and I would be left to play with my sister or watch TV.

When we went home, my mom would have a list of things my gran needed help with, especially after she became a widow. My mom would tell my dad what had been discussed and then pass along the list. My dad would already be on edge going in, and now he would get annoyed at the requests. He thought it was ridiculous that he was asked to do things when he didn’t feel he had any choice but to comply to honour my mom’s commitments.

My mom saw her mom as unapproachable. She didn’t feel comfortable asking her anything, so she had been closer to my grandad. She could tell him her problems and concerns, and he would give her advice and decide which things were best kept secret from my gran. My gran enforced the rules, and if my mom broke them, she would be insulted and sometimes even beaten. My mom had wanted to go to university, but my gran told her that they couldn’t afford it and that she should get a job. She did and never pursued that goal again. She said her mom rarely praised her but often spoke highly of my mom’s cousin, always comparing them and telling my mom she should be grateful because her cousin was less fortunate.

As far as I can remember, there was always a sort of competition for my mom’s attention. Everyone in the house wanted a bit of her time, and everyone felt like someone else was getting more than they were. My mom was the calm parent in the house. Since she couldn’t talk to her own mom, she decided she should talk to her children, and she would also decide which things needed to be hidden from my dad.

My sister was born with one of her hands coming out first, like the Statue of Liberty, so the story she kept hearing was that she could have killed my mom. She was also constantly reminded that she cried all the time as an infant and that if she hadn’t been such a difficult baby, my parents would have had a second child sooner. Then I came along—lucky number two—and while I was born quickly and barely cried, all I heard was how I ruined my mother’s figure and how she was never able to recover after having me. She was forever dieting and telling us how unhappy she was with her weight, so it’s no wonder we grew up insecure about ours, regardless of our size.

My mom loves music and has quite a good singing voice. I used to ask her to sing different songs to me growing up, and to this day, I listen to music constantly and use it to change my mood, so she definitely passed that love on to me. She had been a Black Sabbath fan when she was young, and even now, when she is cooking, she listens to the rock radio station. She was not one to have me close while she cooked, and she never really taught me how to cook. Every time I wanted to learn, she would say I would have enough of it when I got married. That made things difficult when I moved out on my own and had to teach myself.

She helped me with creative projects for school. She had the patience to explain things to me, but she was also the one who compared me to everyone and their grandmother. She was the one who, in a panic, told me that I wasn’t applying myself enough and that I wouldn’t pass my final high school exams. When I did pass and brought up what she had said, she claimed she had never said it.

I remember asking my mom to cuddle with me, and after a while, she would say she had had enough and that I should go away. That always felt like rejection. It felt like a repeated moment of being pushed away.

I once watched a clip where Teal Swan described a child as being like a doll—taken off the shelf when the parent wants to play and then put back when they are bored. The child needs to eat when they are told to eat, sleep when they are told to sleep, offer company when requested, and disappear when not needed. It sounded painfully accurate.

She was closest to my sister, and because she was colder with me, I slowly stopped trying to get close to her. I accepted things as they were.

My mom didn’t seem to have many friends—just a few over the years, and they rarely saw each other. We didn’t have people over often. We never had parties or dinners for guests. I never had a birthday party or any celebration outside the family, so even now I feel uncomfortable when people ask if I’m doing anything special for my birthday. I’m simply not used to it being a big deal.

I never had sleepovers either. Whenever I asked, my mom would say we needed to renovate the house before we could receive guests. My parents never went to shows, dinners, or vacations, so I was never home alone. When my university friends asked if I wanted to go clubbing, my mom told me that only whores go out after 10 p.m., so I would say I wasn’t feeling well and take a rain check.

After I finished university, I started looking for a job. My mom said I should take any job that was offered to me. That didn’t sit right with me, especially since most jobs had long lists of requirements but only offered minimum wage. I kept rejecting them, and my mom panicked and told me I didn’t actually want a job and just enjoyed freeloading. I stuck to my guns and eventually found a job that paid enough for the life I wanted. When I told her, she once again claimed she had never said those things.

My first job allowed me to move into a flat owned by my paternal grandmother. There were many things I had to teach myself, but I was free. I could have people over, go out whenever I wanted, and control how much contact I had with my parents.

I would watch movies where daughters cried in their mothers’ arms over breakups, and that was never us. I don’t think my mother ever liked any of the men I dated. As soon as I mentioned a fight, she would say she knew he was worthless. My friends were the ones I talked to about those things. They supported me and gave me advice. After my last breakup, I didn’t tell my parents for a month because I couldn’t handle their disappointment on top of everything else.

Over time, I got used to talking less and less with my mom about my life. I feel like if I tell her something, it might later be thrown back at me as criticism, so now I just give a news report—stick to the highlights and expect nothing in return.

I try to understand her. I try to piece together how she became the way she is. I try to focus on the good things she has done and let go of the bad.

In therapy, I was asked if I thought my mother loved me. I said I thought she had enjoyed having us as her children and continued talking. Later, I realised I had never actually answered the question.

In another session, I realised why I felt such sadness about my past relationship ending. It wasn’t just losing my partner—I also lost his mother. Since I couldn’t get my emotional needs met by my own mother, I gravitated toward her. She told me I was loved. She celebrated my achievements. She listened to my worries and offered empathy. Losing that made the breakup even harder.

My gran died a few years ago, and even now, my mom says my sister had a better relationship with her than she ever did. My sister lived with my gran for several years after her divorce, and despite their fights, they loved each other deeply.

As I continue therapy and come to terms with my past, I know I will eventually accept my mom as she is. I can connect the dots logically, but there is still some mourning left to do and some growing pains ahead.

I keep being told not to expect anything from my mom, but in my heart, I still hope she might one day be willing to work toward a better relationship.

As for my gran, I often think about the amaryllis lilies she used to have. Now I have some in my own house, and every time I look at them, I smile and think of my gran and grandad.